Masks
by midnightcat16
Summary: She is a dignitary. He is her bodyguard. They wear their masks in the social eye, but take them off when they are together. A little bit of fluff.
1. Masks

**While this isn't the first story I've ever written, this is the first one I am posting. I hope to have more to follow! Just a little bit of fluff. **

During the day, she was a dignitary. Proper, lady-like, she acted exactly as her position required. She schmoozed the correct people, smiled when necessary, and pretended to laugh at jokes she didn't think were funny. All of the young men (and old men, though she pretended not to notice) looked at her with eyes full of adoration, but for all her warmth and friendliness, she kept a barrier between her and them that subconsciously they knew was there. She wanted nothing to do with them. So while they laughed and fawned and idolized her, they kept their distance. She wore her mask and played her part well.

He was the perfect bodyguard. Tall, with a serious face and imposing figure, he fit his role. He kept a respectable distance behind her, feet placed slightly apart and hands clasped behind his back. His eyes wandered the room in what seemed like careless boredom, but anyone watching for any length of time would note how he carefully examined every aspect of his surroundings and often brought his gaze back to her. He was aware of her every movement, and moved with her to compensate. He also wore his mask well and expertly feigned disinterest in everything that transpired.

This was how they filled their days: pleasantries, superficial conversations. He observing, she actively participating, hardly looking and never speaking to each other.

During the evening, after she dutifully recited her goodbyes and farewells and good evenings, they retreated to their own world—her room. It was small, but cozy and well-furnished. There they stayed together (over the protests of the other nobles—how improper to sleep in the same room with a man—but he is my bodyguard and I need him to protect me, she insisted and finally won the battle). There, they could finally rise above the expectations and pressures of social life, take off their masks, and laugh at the world. It was these moments that kept them sane.

They gossiped over the aristocrats ("Did you see what he was wearing today?" "He must have gotten dressed in the dark this morning"), made faces, shared stories. When they ran out of things to talk about (which rarely happened) and even when they didn't, they turned to books. The only piece of furniture she insisted on having (aside from a bed) was a bookshelf. It reached from the floor to the ceiling and was completely full. They took turns reading to each other, sometimes acting out ridiculous scenes, trying and failing to speak in hushed voices, stomachs bursting at the seams from laughing—sometimes reading quietly to each other, curled up next to each other on her bed, listening to the sounds of each other's voices. Their heaven was in that small room.

He slept on the floor next to her bed with a pillow and blanket she sacrificed for him. He refused to accept more. The ground was hard and the pillow did little to soften, but he would not have given it up for the most comfortable bed in the world. Each night he fell asleep to the sound of her voice and the image of her smile (his smile, not theirs) and each night he inched a little closer, intoxicated. This was how they fell asleep, pale moonlight streaming in through the window beside the bed, stillness, breathing, promises.

But then they had to wake up and play the game again. Her days became longer and every time she turned around it seemed she had new responsibilities. She talked little and smiled less, even with him. She stopped reading and left her mask on, even in her room, in what had been their heaven. When he asked she gave no answer, and all he could do was lie on his floor and stare through that pale blue light to the face that was now turned away from him.

One night he came into her room to find his makeshift bed gone, the pillow and blanket replaced on her mattress. "Does this mean you want me to leave?" he asked, unable to keep the hurt out of his voice. She was already lying down. "Sleep next to me?" she pleaded. He hesitated and then said in a low voice, "I don't think that's the best idea." She grabbed his pillow and blanket and threw them on the floor, turning away from him. A few seconds later, she felt the weight of the blanket being placed over her and was rewarded with a warm body sliding in next to her under the sheets. He wrapped his arm around her waist and pressed his lips to her hair. She felt rather than heard his sigh and his body relaxing.

"I'm failing at my job," he whispered into her ear. A shiver ran up her spine.

"No, you're not," she whispered back. "I've never felt this safe in my life."


	2. Scars

**Wow, this took way too long to post. Please let me know what you thought! **

Murtagh hated his scar.

He stood in front of the mirror, bare chested, trying to maneuver his body in a way that he could see over his shoulder to the thin, ragged line that ran down his back. He hated it for how it looked, for the judgment in people's eyes when they first saw it, for how it labeled him as that murderer's son. He hated it because every time he looked at it, he remembered the agony, the flash of excruciating pain, the suffering he had endured at the hands of the man he should have been able to affectionately call "father." Someone he should have been able to trust implicitly.

If there were anything he could do to remove it, he would in a heartbeat. Good riddance to painful memories. To weakness.

He soon gave up and pulled his tunic back on. He did not want be discovered. Nasuada did not approve of his unhealthy fixation with this mark on his back. He sighed and gathered the papers he was supposed to be bringing to her. She was overworking herself again, and he disapproved. They both had their obsessions, he mused. He did not think hers was any healthier, an opinion he kept to himself.

At the end of the day, they collapsed onto her bed, exhausted. They rarely had energy left for books or laughter, what remained they saved for quiet conversation during the last few moments of the evening. He removed his tunic and pulled her close. She shifted and moved her hand to the back of his neck and felt for the knot she knew was there. For reasons she could not explain, she found his scar to be oddly comforting. Perhaps because it reminded her that even when he seemed his most stoic, his most impassive, he was still vulnerable. Still breakable. And she loved him even more for it. She followed the line down his back to his opposite hip, fingers lightly tracing. She tried to picture this mature, serious man as the toddler he once was, childhood robbed from him at a young age by a moment of cruelty. She was overwhelmed with compassion. He never understood when she tried to put it into words—he was perplexed by her fascination with the scar on his back.

"It reminds me of who you are," she tried to explain. It did not make him hate it any less.

That night, he dreamed of violent fathers with long knives and cruel faces. Nasuada dreamed of endless paperwork and groveling emissaries. Both woke in a sweat.

Murtagh frequently thought that Nasuada was one of the strongest people he had ever met. She was able to persevere through every adversity and face any difficulty with grace and composure. He admired her confidence, her quiet dignity, her integrity in a position where dishonesty was almost expected among its members. As a man who had been badly mistreated and neglected as a child by people like these, he had come to despise corruption in every form. For him, Nasuada embodied every attribute he admired and shared his distaste for duplicity. He marveled at her strength of character and resilience at being able to work in such an environment without letting it affect her.

Still, there were days when it seemed like the world was crashing to pieces all around her and there was nothing she could do to keep it together, when everything she was passionate about seemed hollow and worthless, when she wasn't sure what was real and what wasn't. It was days like these when Murtagh wasn't sure there was anything he could do to make it right, when he felt more helpless than he thought he was ever capable of feeling.

It was a day like this that he found her, curled up on her bed, silent sobs racking her body, inconsolable. He felt her grief as his own, shared in her disappointment and hopelessness.

Then, without explanation, he pulled off his tunic and wrapped her up in his arms. He pulled her against him and guided her hand to his back, first to the knot on his neck and then following the mark on his back. Her crying ceased, and she rested her hand on the scar of the man she loved.


	3. Sparring

**I never actually intended for this story (I say story-I guess it's more like a series of one-shots) to get past one or two chapters, but here we are! Props to anyone who recognizes the quote at the end. And thanks to everyone who posted such lovely reviews! I would love even more ;)**

She watches him from across the field, teaching a young boy how to fight. She admires his movements—fluid, practiced—a contrast to the clumsy movements of the boy, she notes with amusement. When they finish, she turns to leave, but comes face-to-face with a pair of intense brown eyes and their owner handing her a cudgel, telling her it's her turn.

* * *

Another meeting. She groans inwardly as she arranges her notes.

"If I die of boredom, I want to be cremated," she says dramatically.

"You're not going to die," he rolls his eyes.

* * *

Just counting today, she has lost four sparring matches in a row.

"Don't worry, it's not a competition," he reassures her. Suddenly his face breaks into a grin. "But it if was, I won."

* * *

"So…there's been something I've been giving a lot of thought."

"What's that?"

"I think it's time for you to grow a beard."

He will never understand her fascination with facial hair.

* * *

The room is crowded and the buzz of pleasant conversation fills the air. She joins him at a table and hands him a mug of ale. He briefly admires her exquisitely embroidered crimson dress and looks at her empty hands.

"Aren't you going to drink, too?"

"When I get you drunk and have you tell me all your secrets I want to remember what they are." She winks at him and secretly he thinks she might not be joking.

* * *

After months of sparring together, she has finally won a match.

"Look at all this raw talent I didn't realize I had!" she exclaims, delighted to have finally bested the formerly undefeatable swordsman.

He huffs and mutters that she shouldn't let it go to her head.

* * *

After a long and surprisingly entertaining afternoon, she details the events of her most recent meeting in which she put an arrogant governor in his place.

"I take a lot of pleasure in telling men that they're wrong. And then proving it. It's one of my few joys in life."

He secretly thinks she needs a new hobby.

* * *

He sits near the fireplace, cleaning his sword. She sits at her desk, writing on what looks like a very official document in a foreign language.

"Would you happen to know that word for "moustache" in Urgal-ese?"

* * *

He wonders why there are so many parties they have to go to. He doesn't even like drinking that much. He looks around and spies Nasuada (a midnight blue dress this time) walking towards him holding a mug of ale.

"I'm taking you prisoner for an hour," she says, pulling him towards an emptier part of the room. "You have to talk to me so I regain some of my sanity before I have to rejoin the wolves.

He follows her.

"How can I resist when I have such a beautiful jailer?" he murmurs.

* * *

He finds her in the library. She stands close to one of the shelves, completely absorbed in a book. He watches as she closes her eyes, brings the book up to her face, and breathes deeply. Time stands still as she pauses this way for a moment, then closes it gently and returns it to the shelf. He catches a glimpse of blue and gold before it passes from sight.

* * *

They spar more and more frequently and Nasuada learns how you can know someone so well that their movements become part of your dance. When their swords meet, they are the clash of darkness and light; when they circle, they are the eternity between stillness and movement.

* * *

After another close sparring match in which he is about to declare himself the victor, she throws aside her cudgel, pushes him to the ground, and declares that she won. "By cheating," he grins. She is straddling him, the weight of her hands on his chest. They look at each other for a few moments. His hands encircle her wrists—

* * *

He starts to think about all the things he would call her if she were his.

* * *

"Why won't you tell me?"

"I don't know." He pauses. "It's too easy to tell you all my secrets. I feel like I should have some secrets from you."

* * *

The two are sparring before dinner, as has become their custom. She is wearing rough work clothes and her hair is pulled back in a messy knot. They are greatly enjoying themselves—teasing, circling, trying to find an opening where they can land a good blow. A maid rushes out frazzled and insists that Nasuada must come inside immediately to change—there is a visiting dignitary who may be a potential suitor.

"What's wrong with what I'm wearing now?" she demands.

"Don't you understand? He wants to marry you! This would be a good match!"

"He wants to marry me?" She gestures to herself with her cudgel, indicating her rough clothes, sweat stains, and messy hair. "This IS me!"

But she puts down her makeshift sword carefully and dutifully follows the maid. Murtagh stoops to pick it up and silently watches her leave.

* * *

"Dance with me," she says.

He thinks to himself that parties aren't all that bad.

* * *

"So what are we supposed to do? Just pretend we don't feel this way about each other?" he shouts at her receding figure.

* * *

Sometimes they travel alone together and she doesn't know how to explain their relationship to outsiders. She tells everyone that they are cousins (a fib usually met with amusement because they couldn't possibly look any less related). It is a long-running joke between the two and they have taken to calling each other cousin in jest even when they are alone.

* * *

"I'll take the first watch."

"No, I'll take the first watch."

"Go to sleep, or I'll hit you over the head with my frying pan."

He grumbles to himself that she is such a bad cook that she wouldn't know what else to do with one.

* * *

She wonders about how easy it is to love someone and how difficult it is to say it.

* * *

"You realize I'm not going to let you sleep on the floor, right? I still have some semblance of chivalry."

"You're supposed to treat me like an equal, remember? That means taking turns sleeping on the floor."

"Just lie on the bed."

"But I'm already lying here. Too much effort to move." She closes her eyes and pretends to sleep.

He looks at her and gives an exasperated sigh. She smiles thinking she has won. Then his eyes glint mischievously and he stoops next to her, and—ignoring her startled indignation—tears off her blankets and scoops her up. He carries her to the bed and plops her down roughly.

"So gentle!"

"Here, I'll even tuck you in," he grins, grabbing the blankets and covering her with mock forcefulness.

"Are you going to tell me a bedtime story too?"

* * *

"I don't want to be your cousin anymore," he says.

* * *

"Are you here to tell me that women don't belong in battle?"

"No, I'm here to tell you that _you _don't belong in battle."

She ignores him.

* * *

"We'll look tomorrow for the bodies," a man remarks. He goes insane imagining her as a _body_—

* * *

"Damn it," he exclaims, still giddy from relief. "I'm trying to profess my love for you and you don't even understand it."

She squeezes his hand and gives him a smile so sweet that his heart skips a beat before resuming at a frantic pace.

* * *

What a beautiful thing it is to come home, she thinks, and to be still.

* * *

He glances at her slumbering form and rescues a book with a simple blue cover from where it had fallen on the floor. A feather—apparently serving as a bookmark—flutters to the ground as he opens the book to the marked page, his fingers caressing the gold spine.

_So the darkness shall be the light_

_And the stillness the dancing_


	4. Wagers

**After months of writer's block (and being overwhelmed with school), I'm finally back! I really love writing these one-shots, so hopefully you will see more of them. Also, I realize this is the second chapter starting with Murtagh looking in the mirror. He's not that vain, I promise ;) Reviews keep me motivated! Thanks for reading! **

Murtagh stood in front of the mirror, eyeing his reflection in interest at his changing appearance. Frowning, he rubbed his chin and thought back to the conversation that had initiated this new change. Nasuada had been the catalyst, of course, just as she was for everything else in his life: physical, mental, or emotional.

It had been several years now that he had known her and there had been a number of surprising things he had come to learn about his fierce, gentle friend.

Her talent and interest in sparring had been one of them, of course. His years growing up in Uru'baen had not exposed him to a community that accurately reflected how diverse Alagaesia actually was. Until the age of ten, Murtagh erroneously held the belief that nobles were the only kind of people in the world, that women only ever wore enormous dresses adorned with too many pearls, that people only formed relationships with each other to accomplish their own ends.

That was, until Tornac, his mentor and savior, had considered Murtagh's moral education just as important as his academic one, and frequently took him out into the city to experience life through the eyes of those different from him, strengthening the child's resolve to leave the city and do good in the world in his own way. The two went to taverns incognito, spoke with all sorts of people throughout the city, and even disguised themselves as servants and spent the day uprooting weeds and planting flowers in a noblewoman's garden, chatting cheerfully with the other gardeners all the while.

And even then he had not been prepared to meet the whirlwind that was now his best friend/lover/ruler/partner in crime.

He wasn't one of those men who thought that a woman's place was only in the home, to have children and dote on her husband. Nasuada was the most independent person he knew, and one of his favorite things about her was that playful, defiant look she got on her face when she told him no, silently daring him to argue, which he usually did anyway (and always lost). It's just that when a woman, ebony brow glistening with sweat, hair gathered in a messy bun, wearing trousers so patched and weathered it's a miracle they aren't falling apart holds a practice sword to your throat after thoroughly defeating you, it's hard not to be a little taken by surprise.

And that was only one example.

Every day it seemed he was learning something new about her, whether it was her intense fondness for potatoes which she had delivered in cartloads to the palace and had served with every meal, or how she only wore blue on rainy days, or her intense fascination with the Urgal language, or how she woke up just before dawn every morning to watch the sunrise fill the sky.

Nasuada's position demanded a level of patience and resolve that the gods blessed few people with, and she exhibited these qualities with a quiet authority that everyone respected and no one questioned. She was imperturbable, enduring the most inane chatter from the most intolerable dignitaries with grace and dignity, at least until the privacy of her own bedroom where she could scowl and roll her eyes without restraint.

But along with all of these admirable qualities, she possessed a mischievousness that her ladies-in-waiting endured resignedly and that Murtagh watched with amusement.

Translation: Nasuada loved to pull pranks.

Never anything cruel or embarrassing, just something small enough that would cause the recipient to stop for a moment in confusion, scratch their head, and go on with their day. Murtagh had once watched a visiting dignitary spend the greater part of an hour trying to find his quarters because, unbeknownst to him, his luggage had mysteriously moved while he was at breakfast to a completely identical room across the hall. When he finally located his chambers, he had simply shrugged, muttered that he was becoming more forgetful in his old age, and told the story sheepishly to his hostess later whose eyes twinkled with amusement but made no other comment.

Murtagh rarely found himself on the end of these gentle pranks, which he attributed to the constant vigilance he had acquired during his upbringing. Still, he sometimes found himself losing wagers he never remembered getting cornered into making, another one of Nasuada's favorite pastimes that stemmed from her fondness for pranks. They were both hobbies that were, at the surface, seemingly incongruous with Nasuada's reserved and sophisticated manner, but Murtagh knew better than that.

At least, he should have, he chided himself, eyeing his reflection.

It had started a week ago. They were playing chess, because Murtagh loved strategy games and Nasuada was good at losing at them.

She was getting much better, he admitted. It was a game he had played with Tornac frequently growing up, usually after he had finished his morning lessons, and he had recently taught her to play. She really did have a head for strategy, it was just that Murtagh did too, and had years of practice playing against his former mentor. However, he was beginning to notice that the more they played, the more evenly matched they were becoming. She had come close to winning several times, taking his queen right before he locked her into a checkmate, frustrated brown eyes meeting twinkling hazel ones.

"Care to make it more interesting?" she grinned at him one rainy day. They were sitting on the floor next to a large window overlooking the grounds, rain making patterns as it danced down the glass.

In hindsight, he should have known to distrust every word that followed such a statement.

He looked up from where he had been setting up his pieces, the hand holding his knight still hovering over the board.

"How so?" He was now well acquainted with her tendency to make a game out of everything, even another game.

She leaned back on her hands, mischievous smile spreading across her face. She looked beautiful in a simple blue dress she had changed into after a morning of meetings.

"If I win, you have to grow a beard."

Murtagh was unsurprised. She had been trying to get him to grow one for months. He grinned back at her.

"Fine. But if I win, you have to wear a corset. For an entire week."

Nasuada hated corsets. She would have them banned if she didn't think there would be an uprising from all of the noble ladies in her court. Instead, she would have to patiently wait until they went out of style. She deliberately had dresses made that imitated the look, but did not require her to spend the day in constant discomfort.

"A week?" she exclaimed. "Are you trying to kill me? A day."

"A day? Do you know how long it takes to grow a beard?"

"I don't know," she admitted grudgingly. "But the faster you can grow one, the more of a man you are. It shouldn't take that long," she teased, giving him a wink.

"Three days," he conceded.

She accepted his conditions and they shook hands.

It had been a good match, both sides taking heavy losses and suffering major casualties. Nasuada's bishop brutally massacred Murtagh's queen, just after her knight fell victim to a wayward pawn. Murtagh eyed the battlefield in dismay, trying to ignore the look of triumph slowly spreading across his opponent's face after every turn.

Finally it was over, the victor putting her pieces away and standing up, smoothing the folds out of her dress. She grinned at him, smugly thanked him for the game, and went to pull a book off the bookshelf. He watched her read for a moment (or at least pretend to, she was still looking very pleased with herself), then sighed and got up to put the game away, wondering how after years of (mostly) carefully avoiding them, he had still found his way at the losing end of one of Nasuada's wagers.

And that was how he found himself in this moment, rubbing his hand over his now-rough chin, still unused to the feeling of coarseness in place of smooth skin.

Thinking back to the agreement they had made, Nasuada had never specified how long he had to keep his beard for. Surely two weeks was long enough. Maybe even just one. During dinner that night, however, he was very aware of several discreet glances being shot at him from a certain blushing woman at the end of the table and decided he really didn't mind having a beard all that much.

He was already thinking forward to the next wager.


	5. Home

**I'm back, and with more fluff! Enjoy ;)**

Nasuada often wondered what her life would have been like if she hadn't been queen. Out of all the events in her life that led her to this place, if only one had been different. If her father hadn't died, if she had refused the nomination, if Orrin had been a better candidate. She wondered at what it meant to have a normal life, or if such a thing even existed. She didn't know if she was capable of one, queen or not.

She often wondered what it would have been like if she hadn't fallen for the man with the knowing, serious eyes and scarred body. What it would have been like falling asleep alone on nights as dark as her skin, silence instead of the quiet, rhythmic breaths that made her feel secure. Wistful longing in place of the comfortable pressure of his arm around her waist. Reaching forward and touching only air instead of brown curls and a strong, solid form.

Had her life been different, had she weighed her choices differently before making them decisions, had she listened to the advice of the people who loved her (and those who didn't), she wouldn't be here in this moment, right now, tracing the scar of this man with fingertips as soft as his gaze on her.

Nasuada loved to be told stories, and Murtagh indulged her. Sometimes he read to her from her own personal library, and she was lulled to sleep many nights curled up as close to him as possible, head resting on his chest, eyes slipping shut as his voice washed over her in rhythmic waves. Sometimes he told her his own stories from his childhood: old, familiar stories that she insisted on hearing again and again. He was an excellent storyteller and each time he retold a story, he would embellish it in a different way or tell it from someone else's perspective.

But most of his stories were written on his skin, and Nasuada could see and feel the proof of his tale as he told it. These stories meant more, the ones that his body told. And he wore them proudly, save one. They proved his resilience, his skill in battle, his tenacity and determination to survive. Nasuada admired the fire that burned in his eyes when he told them. The long, jagged scar on his back, however, told a story of anger and hurt so deep that it meant less than nothing to him, and that was a story Nasuada would only ever hear once.

But more important than these were the scars that Murtagh showed her that she couldn't see. These ran deeper than any physical wound, and Nasuada knew she had a few of her own, too. Her father's death had not left her unscathed.

But these were behind her now and were healing. Her father had died honorably and people sympathized with her. There were quarrels to dig up or grievances to be made that would open and irritate old wounds.

This was not the case for Murtagh.

Every scar he owned, visible or not, began with the mark on his back. Years of mistreatment and unearned distrust had torn deep, jagged wounds of bitterness and resentment, and every look, every whisper overheard, tore a little deeper. No matter how hard he tried to ignore or push the comments out of his mind or downplay the attack on his dignity, he was not immune.

Nasuada knew this. She knew that staying in the capital, surrounded by the kinds of people he had grown up around, part of the same political game he had been introduced to as a child, would not be easy for him. And she felt incredibly guilty about it. She knew that she was the only reason he was staying, was the only thing between him and the road. She was the only obstacle to his chance of a life away from places where people knew his name and uttered it in low, judgmental whispers.

Nasuada did not ask Murtagh to remain in the capital after the war had ended. He had no obligation to stay and try to fix the mess that was Alagaesia after the king had finally been defeated. He had no duty to help mend a system that had caused him nothing but grief. That was her job. But, he did. Immediately after the war ended, he began working tirelessly day and night clearing rubble and organizing relief efforts. He supported her in her efforts to become queen when Orrin was pressuring her to step down. In the tense hours and days and weeks that followed, he became her most trusted confidante and closest friend, eventually slipping into the role of bodyguard as well. They were together all the time anyway.

There were several nobles paying careful attention to this sudden shift in roles and quickly raised their concerns. They began to protest that the appointment of the hated Morzan's first and only son as her personal bodyguard was not a good idea. He was probably just as deranged and waiting for the right chance and wouldn't she rather have one of their sons as a more appropriate choice?

Nasuada was direct but polite in her refusal. And her defense of her new bodyguard's integrity did not win him any more friends.

So she worried, because that was part of her job as queen. She worried that after all of the years of abuse and ostracism from people like these, that this was not the best place for him to heal. She despaired, but plans began to take shape in her mind to send him away. It was not what was best for her, or even for this new empire, but it was what was best for him.

She had arranged to meet with an emissary from Surda later that afternoon to discuss the logistics of the country potentially rejoining the empire, now that its dictator was overthrown. She made a mental note to also bring up the possibility of having Alagaesian citizens fill in vacant positions in the southern country to help smooth the transition, already contemplating how she would sell the idea.

She had a few names in mind.

* * *

Nasuada barely had time to collapse on the bed before he confronted her.

"I know what you're planning," he said flatly.

She looked over at him from where she was still lying on the bed. "Oh?"

"You're trying to send me away. I've played this game long enough to know political speak. And heaven knows I've been to enough meetings with you. You're not just trying to fill a position, Nasuada. You're trying to get me out of here."

His tone was not accusatory; he was merely stating what he saw as fact. His eyes were tired, resigned.

She did not attempt to make any denials.

"And why do you think I would be trying to get you out of here?"

He stared at her for moment without speaking. Nasuada held his gaze but felt it pierce through her. He was too perceptive.

"I've been trying to come up with that answer all evening. There are plenty of other people who could fill that position but less that could fill my current one. I know your routine, your habits, and we are well attuned to each other. And you've made it perfectly clear, to me at least, how you feel about having other bodyguards."

"Maybe I don't need a bodyguard."

He gave her a flat stare. "You know perfectly well that you do. For appearance, if nothing else. The queen cannot be allowed to walk around alone. Especially when it's only been a few months since the king was defeated and his supporters are still trying to infiltrate."

He walked over to the window and looked out at the scenery. The sun was just beginning to set and the bright colors unfurling across the sky contrasted sharply with the tone of their conversation. Nasuada marveled at how logically he had reflected on his emotional turmoil, methodically picking apart her reasoning and examining each piece. He was the most rational creature she had ever met. She absentmindedly thought to herself that if there was ever cause to go to war again, she would hire him as her strategist.

"The only reason I can think of is that you've finally gotten tired of having Morzan's son so close to you. Having me as your bodyguard isn't doing you any favors with the court," he said moodily.

She sat up and looked at him sharply, though his back was turned.

"I've never cared about that before, so why start now?" she asked. "You know I don't hold against you who your father was. What matters is _your_ character, not his. The court needs to learn to accept that."

He turned and looked at her, uncomprehending. "Then why? Do you want me to leave?"

She sighed and broke his gaze, eyes resting on her bookshelf across the room.

"I know it's hard for you to be here," she began in a low voice. "I know it hurts you what people say about you, how they treat you. No one should have to deal with that, especially when it's so undeserved. I foolishly thought that if I put you in a position so close to me, it would show them that they were wrong and that you were a person worthy of their respect. But it's done the opposite, and now I have to admit to myself that the only reasons I have for keeping you here are selfish ones. You deserve a chance to have a family and a home where you are respected and admired for who you are, not ridiculed and—"

She was talking too quickly, letting her emotions pour out in a way that she rarely allowed. He was kneeling in front of her now, hand reaching for hers. She hadn't noticed him move.

"You're not answering my question," he said gently. "Do you want me to leave?"

It would have been impossible to lie.

"No," she said. "But I think you need to."

He straightened up and sat down on the bed next to her. "Do you know," he asked, "why I decided to stay after the war ended? Why I even decided to fight for the Varden in the first place when I was so adamant that I never would?"

She shook her head.

"After that long, frustrating march through the desert and the mountains to get Eragon and Arya safely to the Varden, and after I was taken prisoner by your father for refusing to let the twins inside my head, I met someone who changed my mind."

He looked at her, mouth beginning to curl into a smile.

"I met _you_," he said. "One of the only people in my entire life that I've met who knew who I was but did not judge me. You know," he said pensively, "I traveled with Eragon for several months, fought with him, and even saved his life, and he was ready to forget everything he knew about me and all that I'd done for him and fight me as an enemy as soon as I told him. Even though there was no logical reason for it. But you—knowing everything about my history and nothing about my character, you came in and spoke to me as an equal even as I was sitting in my cell as your father's prisoner! The nerve!"

Her lips quirked in a smile and she met his amused gaze.

"This was someone I could spend the rest of my life around. This was someone I could fight for. And I would do anything to be near her. Being around you, around someone who has always accepted me with no conditions and no questions asked. This is good for me. This is home, where you are."

She had been completely wrong. This was where he was healing, because she was here. And sending him away would not just be unwise, it would be destructive.

What a fool she was.

"Are you still going to send me away?" he dared, already knowing the answer.

"No," she said. "I'm going to go to bed. Besides, you would probably drive them as crazy as you drive me with your uncanny insightfulness and they would send you right back."

He laughed easily, and she smiled back at him. Honestly, she didn't know what she'd been thinking. She didn't know how she could survive without him.

He crawled into bed and she climbed in after him.

"Promise me that no matter what I do, you _won't _leave."

He kissed her forehead and grinned at her affectionately.

"Not even if I lose to one of your silly bets."


End file.
